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My faint spirit was sitting in the light

Of thy looks, my love;
It panted for thee like the hind at noon

For the brooks, my love.
Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight,

Bore thee far from me;
My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon,

Did companion thee.

Ah ! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,

Or the death they bear,?
The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove

With the wings of care;
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,

Shall mine cling to thee,
Nor claiin one smile for all the comfort, love,

It may bring to thee.


ONE word is too often profaned

For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdained

For thee to disdain it.
One hope is too like despair

For prudence to smother, And Pity from thee more dear

Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love,

But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above

And the Heaveus reject not,
The desire of the moth for the star,

Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow !


I Pant for the music which is divine,

My heart in its thirst is a dying flower; Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine,

Loosen the notes in a silver shower ; Like a herbless plain, for the gentle rain, I gasp, I faint, till they wake again.

Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound,

More, O more,-) am thirsting yet,
It loosens the serpent which care has bound

Upon my heart to stifle it;
The dissolving strain, through every vein,
Passes into my heart and brain.

As the scent of a violet withered up,

Which grew by the brink of a silver lake ; When the hot noon has drained its dewy cup,

And mist there was none its thirst to slakeAnd the violet lay dead while the odour flew On the wings of the wind o'er the waters blue

As one who drinks from a charmed cup

Of foaming, and sparkling, and inurmuring wine, Whom, a mighty Enchantress filling up,

Invites to love with her kiss divine.

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The cold earth slept below;
Above the cold sky shone;

And all around,

With a chilling sound,
From caves of ice and fields of snow,
The breath of night like death did flow

Beneath the sinking moon.

The wintry hedge was black,
The green grass was not seen,

The birds did rest

On the bare thorn's breast,
Whose roots, beside the pathway track,
Had bound their folds o'er many a crack

Which the frost had inade between.

Thine eyes glowed in the glare
Of the moon's dying light;

As a fen-fire's beam,

On a sluggish stream,
Gleams dimly-so the moon shone there,
And it yellowed the strings of thy tangled hair

That shook in the wind of night.

The moon made thy lips pale, beloved ;
The wind made thy bosom chill;

The night did shed

Ont:y dear head
Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie
Where the bitter breath of the naked sky

Might visit thee at will.
November, 1815.


Death is here and death is there,
Death is busy every wliere,
All around, within, beneath,
Above, is death-and we are death.

Death has set his mark and seal
On all we are and all we feel,
On all we know and all we fear,

First our pleasures die-and then
Our hopes, and then our fears—and when
These are dead, the debt is due,
Dust claims dust-and we die too.

All things that we love and cherish,
Like ourselves must fade aud perish.
Such is our rude mortal lot,
Love itself would, did they not,


When passion's trance is overpast,
If tenderness and truth could last
Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep,
I should not weep, I should not weep!

It were enough to feel, to see
Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly,
And dream the rest and burn and be
The secret food of fires unseen,
Couldst thou but be as thou hast been.

After the slumber of the year
The woodland violets re-appear,
All things revive in field or grove,
And sky and sea, but two, which inove,
And for all others, life and love.


LISTEN, listen, Mary mine,
To the wisper of the Apennine,
It bursts on the roof like the thunder's roar,
Or like the sea on a northern shore,
Heard in its raging ebb and flow
By the captives pent in the cave below.
The Apennine in the light of day
Is a mighty mountain dim and grey,
Which between the earth and sky doth lay;

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